Redemption Is Subjective - Fall & Rise An Emporor In Exile
by Baron Bilious Blueballs
Summary: By Starfall they bade him adieu, that disgraced, defeated Emperor cast down by a mere ape. So shamed, his pride riven, Frieza enters a self-imposed exile. Yet he is haunted and never forgets, or forgives. But, when one wants something so badly they will resort to any extreme to get it, only to lose themselves in the process; what then happens when they forget they are already lost?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N -** **Before commencement :**

 **Some Pre-Emptive Author Confessions ::**

Gooday Cunts!

Baron Bilious Blueballs here

So, this is my first and very likely only fic and therefore the author's fabled responsibility of due diligence to their readers compels me to give mine fair notice. This story will in all probability be dropped at any time without warning. Free time is scarce, my life ensures a busy schedule and I am a slow, lazy, lousy, insensitive, cynical, thick-skinned, easily demotivated faux-writer who is an academic failure with no writing experience and atrocious grammar while being overly-hyperbolic, vocabulary retarded, dictionary dependent and, above all else, who's productivity is powered on having fun and not hard work or dedication. I hereby own my flaws and regret none of them. I am also my own most ruthless and savage critic and thus am never satisfied with anything I do because it's all shit. Honesty with one's self is key after all.

To be blunt, I write only for myself and personally believe it is self-destructive folly to balance my motivation on the reviews and approval or disapproval of others. Any future updates depend on two factors, the fun of writing, and free time. If either supply dwindles, progress too shall dwindle, even die. Reviews, negative or positive will not impact the process, though valid criticisms –might- be accepted depending on their suggestions. But fair warning, I may not make it past the first chapter, and here's the truth of why. It took me just shy of 2 years to write it.

I advise all follow box tickers to abandon hope for this story's future and expect each chapter to be the last. This story is but an experiment to determine if I'm any good at writing, and of course because my favourite character is Frieza. Should I find time and drive to continue, the plot will have no forward planning because I am incapable of forethought beyond my next breath; even the few flash-forwards will have zero grounding with the direction the plot itself will decide to go. In other words I'm making this shit up as I go. Either the story will really, REALLY slowly grow into it's own like a seed into a plant and best case scenario develop a meandering, pointless, repetitive, often procrastinatory plot with absolutely no direction, many ass-pulled plot conveniences as well as plot holes in the thousands, but I will at the very least try to avoid brazen retcons . . . no promises.

For now, consider this no more than a single chapter work exploring Frieza's mindset post Namek. And feel free to drop me a line, be it to bombard me with critique, disdain, compliments or even just to call me a cunt. All are welcome, even the whiners because that's how free speech works, and if your happy spitting in the face of PC culture by insulting me, you have my respect. I don't need my "Fee-fee's" protected or to cower in some "Safe Space." If you're looking for a safe space then what the fuck are you doing on the internet? Go hide under your bed or something. Like I said, reviews won't impact the future of this story unless the criticism is very valid, so don't dress it up in verbal genteel finery, just speak ya mind, cunts, I'll listen . . . probably.

* * *

 **Now a Q &A for general questions I anticipate receiving should this story defy it's inevitable futureless fate, because after this, there will be no more authors notes . . . I hope.**

Q: Are you always this rudely blunt and with people?

A: Yes. My general attitude endears me to nobody – And yes. I am an asshole, albeit an honest one. If you take issue with me as I am, then that's your problem, deal with it, or don't; either way, I don't give a shit.

Q: SHIPPING-SHIPPING-SHIPPING?!

A: I get that 90% of the fanfiction community is more obsessed with shipping than anything else. I also understand that I will lose 90% of my readers when I say . . . . Fuck shipping! :: I don't give a crap about romance; it bores me. That's not to so there will be none. The canon couples will stand, their relationships shall be acknowledged but not deeply explored; their love's existence is all that requires notation.

Q: Will the good guys win in the end? (Spoilers)

A: With the loss of 90% of my readers successfully achieved, along with those already tired of my zero shits given disposition, it is time to bugger off the rest by answering . . . no. In fact Goku, Vegeta and the Z Gang are in for a horror show when and if Frieza goes to Earth, and timeline-wise that won't be for a good 14 to 16 years at least, and that's assuming I even write past the first chapter. Rest assured though, there will be NO happy ending for them. This is a Frieza-centric tale after all and he is going to do some seriously fucked up, evil shit in this story. If you're the type who can't stomach villains getting their way, this story is absolutely NOT for you, so spare me the moralizing complaints . . . You have been admonished.

Q: But will Frieza ultimately lose?

A". . . Uhhh, define "Lose.".

Q: Romance prospects for Frieza?

A: Frieza will have no romantic interest because, one, he's an asexual being, and two, because I say so. Though he is a cruel bastard and will use the affections of others to his own ends if they are stupid enough to fall for him, and trust me, some will be that stupid and he will break their hearts right after tearing them out of their chests and crushing them to pulpy sludge in the palm of his hand once they outlive their usefulness. This is Frieza, not some angsty, lonely teenager who's every problem can be solved by the fictitious, fairytale power of love and companionship – BLARGH! - and if the opening chapter to come doesn't drive that point home –HARD- and you still hold out hope, this story is NOT for you. It will be bloody and ugly and downright sickening in many places, and there will be little to no justice, such is the way of most villain-centric tales.

Q: What's your problem with shipping, asshole?!

A: You mean aside from the pointless, idiotic flame wars the subject sparks? Let me make my perspective on this so sparkling, fucking clear that I need never repeat it. My personal, very unpopular opinion about shipping is that it's the bane of every present day fandom for a plethora of reasons almost nobody cares about. People like what they like, I get that and I won't judge them for it, but neither will I cater to their little headcanons. I will say this only one more time - I write for me and nobody else. If you enjoy it, I'm happy for you; if not, no hard feelings.

Q: Will you as a faux-writer adhere to the dubious codes of political correctness?

A: Pfff, what the fuck do you think? . . . HELL NO! - If you're one of those SJW types who cannot abide this freedom of expression, trust me, we won't get along. So please, save us both the time and misery and be on your way, because there are themes in this story that WILL offend the easily offended, like alien racism, sexism, Saiyanphobic sentiments, Friezaisms and blah-blah-blah . . .

Q: Shipping?

A: We've been over this!

Q: Well I'm an SJW/3RD Wave Feminist; is your story going to trigger my delicate, special little snowflake sensibilities?

A: I guarantee it, in fact given what the story is about, if it doesn't trigger people like you even a little, then I'm an even shittier writer than I thought. My morbid humour aside, I must clarify that regardless of the topic, I do –NOT- pull my punches. If you are easily "Triggered" by inconsequential happenings in –fictional- material; turn back, for forthright you will find only fictional suffering and fictional oppression. ALL genders of ALL –ALIEN- races will endure EQUAL adversity because Frieza is all about equality; under his iron-fisted rule, nobody feels left out.

Q: Shipping?!

A: I said NOOOO!

Q: I'm offended that you called me a cunt, cunt. What's your major malfunction?!

A: So what? . . . It may not mean the same thing where I'm from compared to where you're from. Over here it's not uncommon to find this sort of humour among some friends who sometimes greet eachother like "Hey cunt, how's life." Or "There you are ya dopey cunt, come on, we're late for Beer Night." This is how I speak and how I am likewise fine being spoken to since it's all in good humor, so feel free to reciprocate so long as it's in good spirit, hell, I'm even alright with it in bad spirit, hehe. Just remember, I will only show respect equivalent to what I am given . . . What? You've heard my explanation and still don't like it? Then fuck off, ya cunt."

Q: SHIPPING?!

A: STOP TRIGGERING ME, DAMN IT!"

Q: From the tone of your author's notes, you're a really crappy writer. Is this estimate fair?"

A: Yup, actually it's more than fair, it's downright generous. I do suck at writing and I will never deny it, nor have I plans to improve cause it's just too much like hard work, and as per my outlook on all activities in life, when fun becomes work, it's not fun anymore and I walk away regardless of the consequences. People don't like it and don't like me for it. But that's their problem, isn't it.

Q: SHIPPING?!

A: Security! Security! Get this –person- out of my sight! Hey! Security! . . . Ugh, where did those hired goons run off to? It's not their lunch break yet.

Q: You do realize that your spelling and punctuation suck and your crappy pros is way too hyperbolical?

A: Your powers of observation are legendary. You should be a detective. Sarcasm aside, yes, I am very aware of this and am far too apathetic to go through the boring process of learning those literary proprieties. No offense to those who weren't napping in class when they were teaching that sort of stuff, or in any class for that matter, I wish you all good fortune and prosperous futures.

Q: SHIPPING?!

A: Oh for fuck sake, just shut up and leave me alone!

Q: You're a foulmouthed, miserable asshole!

A: That's . . . not a question.

Q: SHIPPING?!

A: why? WHYYYYYY-Awww-ho-hooo . . . fuck my life.

Q: Will there be more authors notes like this in the future?

A: For the sake of everyone's sanity, especially mine, there will be, NO, more author's notes.

Q: Shipping?

A: (Face-Palms in exasperation and walks away shaking head)

"Alright, Q&A is over, forever; now go and read the chapter, or don't; no skin off my teeth . . . Seriously though, if you bothered reading this far, you're a champ for enduring my blunt, tactless attitude. Understand that I don't give these warnings just to be a prick, I do it to save readers wasting their time. And no, I'm not sorry that this is a lousy way to start a story, because it's my story and I'll do with it as I please. Now proceed, or don't, either way, I wish you well . . . . cunts." XD

Sincerely ::

Baron Bilious Blueballs. - AKA - The Miserable Fucker who's deranged ranting you just suffered through.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 0**

 **Prologue Part I**

 **Deracination – A Symphony of Madness**

" **Before I Die Alone – Let Me Have Vengeance."**

 **)\\-x(-=)^v^(=-)x-/(**

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 **)::Convenes::(**

 **\- Age 762 – EST - December 24 -**

(==="The Day Planet Namek Died."===)

V

Vivisected; body, mind, pride, figuratively, literally, vivisected. The self, It's oneness asunder, in pieces, in agony, It's grandeur, It's superbia, It's godhood a shambles in it's dismemberment. The taste of defeat upon Its rent, charred tongue a rare, raw flavour commixing with blood and bile into starker definition, that bitter alchemy's deep, torpid virulence endowed with the savagely veracious affirmations of memories already festering into the tortures and torments of a perpetual nightmare.

Meanwhile, a different nightmare, one whelped in the aftermath of that festering other's inspiration was feverishly compelling its dread essence into total assimilation of that dissevered drifter's basest perceptions, annexing It's very grip on reality and steeping what scant awareness the discerped cadaver retained in a purgatory so sallow even the delirious cogency of that drifter's smashed skull and exposed, despoiled brain fully appreciated its pitiless, pain-deranged saturation . . .

. . . and despaired . . .

. . . Drifting – Drifting . . .

Interred alive in a vast open grave, a voidness vacuum remote in time and space from the nowhere of which, the echoes slithered. Echoes of asinine simian mockery whispered from all directions real and imagined, up and down and all around, outside and in, everywhere, and nowhere. Echoes taunting, chiding, jeering vapid reminders, compelling anamnesis of ignominy, of defeat, discoveries of impotence, of fear, experiences of disgrace, and abasement. The echoes, of It's Nemesis.

. . . THE, Nemesis! . . .

(((Echoes)))

. . . Drifting – Drifting . . .

Yes. It despaired, but also rejoiced, for It was alive, and may yet reunite again into the all-powerful, solipsistic god who would redeem Itself from maculation through hellfire, vengeance and bloody damnation upon all who'd sullied it's dignity. It would have satisfaction. It would have vindication. It would HAVE, It's retribution!

It would have them all, or eternally drift, dreaming It's dreams of exquisite, unattainable revenges until the encroaching madness inevitably floods in and sweeps It's very sanity away into the lucid, purely fictive utopian reality of its own imagination where no passion, want or desire EVER goes unfulfilled; but only, in Its dreams. . .

. . . Only, Dreams . . .

. . . Drifting . . . Dreams . . .

. . . Wrapped In Echoes . . .

. . . Wrapped In Madness . . .

. . . Wrapped In Silent, Silent Screams . . .

. . . Dreams-oh-dreams; what hath become of thee? Aboard their little life raft, floating lost on a cold black sea, faint of heart in the dark, capsized, could never swim, can never float, their lofty weight sinking them deep in lethargic, liquid futility. Those faint hearted fiends; beneath these waves, drown dreams.

. . . Dreams of im-mor-tal-i-ty . . .

. . . Dreams-oh-dreams . . .

. . . The dreamer dreams . . .

. . . Of im-mor-tal-i-ty . . .

. . . Wherein those dreams . . .

. . . In silence, The Drifter grieves . . .

. . . Immortal . . . Echoes . . . Dreams . . . Phantoms . . .

. . . Drifting – Drifting . . .

All Alone It was, with those echoes of scornful asperity, of aggrieved retribution, of self-righteous wrath, of thrumming, pulsing golden vendetta, and worst of all; of pity. Oh the searing burn of a mortal enemy's pity. Their MERCY! A razor through It's pride, an irremissible assault, a wound more grievous than all the combined, tangible hurts now scourging It's scant, fragmented consciousness. And still that currish memory kissed its last blood slicked cheek, that wretched monkey's paw slapping right to left and back again. Slapped across the face! Reprimanded like a mere reprobate! How dare that filthy primate SLAP him!

. . . HIM! . . .

. . . Him? . . .

Yes, a He. It is a He. Or was, once, now too vitiated and diminished to boast true individuality, let alone power and identity . . . No, a falsehood, a shameful, shameful falsehood. Barely sentient, perhaps; yet It is no He. Not a being, not here, not now, in this state. It is an It, undeserving of identity, of power, of pride, lower than low can stoop, beneath the beasts and insects, and even, the apes . . .

. . . Apes! . . .

Wrath of an apoplectic Ape, warcry of a revengeful, verminous upstart, mocking speeches of an ascendant inferior, self-righteous sermons of an indicting, lucky fool ablaze with vile golden power it ill-deserved. That nescient ape! The WORST APE! Just a monkey! An –It- also! Like Itself; only lower!

Yet, it was not the monkey who fell, in the end, not the monkey who fell so hard, so fast and so, SO far . . .

. . . Fell, So Very - Very Far . . .

. . . Far, Far, Far - Down, Down, Down . . .

. . . Falling . . . Screams . . . Drowned . . . Dreams

. . . Mocking . . . Phantoms . . . Mortal . . . Shame . . .

((Echoes))

. . . Drifting – Drifting . . .

. . . .So quiet, so cold, so broken; so . . . lost . . .

Wait . . . . Cold? It actually felt, cold?

It could have laughed. It did laugh; a fractured, strangled, whisper of a laugh, sibilant, cadaverous to the last.

The He It once was hailed from a race immune to extreme temperatures, hadn't he? Utterly uncompromising, rapidly shifting, their world was either FAR colder than the deepest, sunless reaches of space, or FAR hotter than any planetary climate, heat to rival the photosphere of any lesser sun. In these extremes, they thrived and amassed prodigious vitality, nevermind the punishing gravity and environment. A species so evolved that food and drink ceased being vital necessities, each rendered irrelevant beyond mere hedonistic indulgence, or in sleep's case, otiose.

For them, even the mere act of breathing passed into obsolescence, reduced to a lingering biological antiquity conferring only mild physical benefits with none of the drawbacks other, lesser races need beware. No toxin, poison, disease, drug or gas could do them ill, and only the strongest magical mind-control could briefly bypass their psychic defences which also immunize them from ever falling fully unconscious. Streamlined perfection is their mould. Intelligence, power, grace, durability; not even vivisection could . . .

. . . "My . . . o-o-own . . . a-attack." . . .

But of course it could. It already had . . . Not so perfect, anymore.

A whole body is a working body, yes. But alas, a failing body is a broken body, and with it's shell in pieces, laid open, skull and brain blown half away, temperature regulation was nil, and the merciless frigidity flooded in. Naturally such cold alone wouldn't kill It, not ever, but the sensation no less enriched It's purgatorial misery.

Bodily broken or not though, even in dire straits such as these, Its kind do not yield to mortality so easily . . .

No. Not -It's- kind; only It. They were hardy but with not half It's resilience, they who decried It an unnatural, mutant abomination, they who all died denying It's superiority and, It's supremacy. They of who It was not truly one. It, the pariah possessed of power and a spirit they all feared. It, who was absolutely justified in the violent, sanguineous end It had dealt almost all of them, an end not a one of them staved off a fraction so ferociously as It now did It's own.

Barring absolute incineration, the golden monkey could've sliced and diced It into itty bitty bits and still It would survive to the end of its natural longevity, and survive to realize, It's heart's blackest desires.

. . . Torture . . . Scream . . . Bleed . . . Scream . . . Suffer. . . Scream . . .

. . . Kill . . . Kill . . . KILL . . .

That callous, naive ape; always verify the kill. ALWAYS! For while It lived, no matter the distance, vengeance WILL be within It's reach . . . Vengeance, yes, vengeance; It must, MUST have vengeance.

. . . Vengeance . . .

. . . Echoes . . .

. . . Vengeance . . .

. . . Of A Cold, Black, Beating, Heart . . .

. . . Beating . . .

. . . Beating For . . .

. . . For Vengeance . . .

. . . "Before, I die, alone . . . p-please . . . please, let me . . . h-have, vengeance." . . .

Vengeance! Red vendetta! Death's chill fingers reaching, seeking, closing upon the throats of all that vomitus, flee-ridden fiend holds dear, squeeeeeeeezing, wringing EVERY, LAST, DROP, of life, from his raison d'être's very HEART, and SOUL! All he loves, all he cherishes, will be as blood-sodden ashes upon is tongue, pouring down his throat until he chokes on his screams, thrashing right there, prone, helpless and tortured at It's feet, and his sweet-o-sweet tears of ANGUISH, and GRIEF, and DESPAIR, WILL, when the end at long, LONG last, arrives, be all that filthy beast can weep! That meddling odium! That misbegotten abomination! That! That! . . .

That Saiyan!

That Super Saiyan!

THAT SUPER SIMIAN BASTARD!

"DDEYAAAAAAAAM-YEEEEUU-GGOOOOOK-K-KEEEUUUUUU!-DYAAHHhhhm—yu-gokk-k-ku-hu-hu-hu-huu . . ."

(((((Echoes)))))

. . . Immortal . . . Agony . . . Dares . . . Dreams . . . Phantoms . . . Screams . . .

. . . Screeeeeaming . . .

. . . Super, Saiyan . . .

. . . Screams . . .

. . . Mortal . . . Anguish . . . Whispers . . . Weeping . . . Demons . . . Tears . . .

. . . Screaming . . .

. . . Super Saiyan . . .

. . . Son Goku . . .

"A monkey . . . he was, just . . . a monkey."

. . . Echoes . . . Dreams . . . Whispers . . . Immortal . . . Shame . . .

. . . Weeping . . .

. . . Bleeding . . .

. . . Fearing . . . Fallen . . . Freezing . . . Frozen . . . Frieza . . .

. . . Frieza? . . .

. . . Lord Frieza, is, gone . . . Only, It, remains . . .

. . . Remnants . . . charred, tattered, defiled, remnants . . .

. . . Drifting - Drifting . . .

. . . Forlorn . . .

(((Echoes)))

". . . Just . . . A . . . M-Mon-k-key . . ."

Just a monkey who had done the impossible, the unthinkable, had done what innumerable other deceased, self-deluding try-hard heroes and grief-frenzied avengers could not. Just one monkey, ONE, to see It humbled, attainted and cast out into abject disparity within this borderless, zero gravity necropolis of a dead world's colossal cremains, as asunder as the drifter drifting among the very ruination It had sown. And quite the poetically pathetic picture they made; annihilator and murderee together, adrift forever.

. . . And Ever . . .

How did it look to another's undamaged sight? It wondered. Did It embody even a shadow of It's former, forgotten greatness? Or what it may forever be? The flotsam of a war, a short, savage war, a personal war; It's war! . . . Lost . . . Yes, a certainty, the latter - the certainty. It felt itself to be so small, and vulnerable, so displaced and broken, so diminished, so insignificant; so, alone . . . forever alone.

(((Echoes)))

. . . Drifting – Drifting . . .

. . . . Flotsam in dead space . . .

. . . Washed Up . . .

. . . Wrung Out . . .

. . . Cast Down . . .

. . . Exiled . . .

At least It's former name would –NEVER- be forgotten, inspiring widespread fear eternal all across the universe in It's merest utterance. - There are worse legacies, one can leave . . . But what is this? Indulging a sentimental whim? Here? At what will be an unimaginably long and tortuous end? Centuries long, millennia even. Perhaps it really had gone mad, and so soon too, before the true flux of It's suffering had barely even begun. Or . . .

. . . Or, had it always been mad? . . .

. . . Madness . . .

. . . Sundered . . . Hubris . . . Mortal . . . Fate . . .

(((Echoes)))

. . . Drifting . . . Madness . . . Immortal . . . Forever . . .

. . . And Ever . . .

Are the dying always so disgustingly poetic in the twilight of their lives? It wondered. This twilight could drag out centuries at this rate, and the bad poeticism with it. Frieza had despised sentimental symbolism and especially crude poeticism. Or had he? Had It? No. It was It, not he. It's memories, now so indistinct and foggy, were his, yet not It's. What right did It have to -HIS- life? This faded, hollow shadow of him. No, It. No, him. No? Which?

Confused, so very, very confused. - Foolish, foolish confusion. And yet, Frieza had been no fool. Oh no-no, no fool at all. Meaning . . . Meaning if it still had a stomach, it would have thrown up at It's own audacity. To think It, this wretched –THING- was ever Lord Frieza, that mightiest Emperor of the Universe. It really had gone mad.

. . . Utterly, Mad . . .

. . . Madness . . .

(((Echoes)))

. . . Madness . . .

Why couldn't this misery just end? Life without power is inconceivable, but life as Itself is unbearable, the bloodlust and tauntingly insignificant chance for revenge all that kept it going. Of all the things to survive It's broken perfection, the impossibility of unconsciousness was the worst.

There's no escaping It, and It's demons . . . It - It would be It, forever; unavenged, forever.

. . . And Ever . . .

. . . And Ever – And Ever – And Ever . . .

. . . FOREVER! . . .

. . . They . . .

. . . Echo . . .

(((((ECHO)))))

It's entire being felt soddenly viscous, slimy, as if doused in all the blood it had lost, yet, at the same time, also drained, hollowed out, drier than a desiccated fossil. Is this the sensation of living death? Is this what existence is like for It's Uncle Deathless? And for that matter, who the devil is Uncle Deathless? The lovechild conceived in the union of It's delirium and ineffable torment? Or the adoptive brother of Papa Kold, Hard, Pain? No, it's both. Oh-oh Yes! Uncle Deathless; a fine name, It opined. It, and Uncle, and Papa, and Brother Coola-la-shame and what a fucked up family they made!

. . . _Family_ . . .

. . . "Kiie-hehehehee-tsee-heheheeeEEEEEE!" . . .

. . . Pain. . . Madness . . . Confusion . . . Echoes . . .

. . . GIGGLES! . . .

It's consciousness, that wobbling, lukewarm ball of stinking, congealing black sludge quivered violently, straining to process It's multitudes of massive traumas holus-bolus, the sheer stress and agony of that futile exercise forcing exodus as a prolonged, pitiful, introverted wailing dissonance, protracted, as if dozens upon dozens of tiny, slimy, puckered lips took turns bubbling up in the mental muck to chorus that vile, recalcitrant disharmony, each individual inflammation an oozing, tear-jerking crescendo and each miniature, mewling mouth's sudden, silencing " _pop"_ pointedly miming the frigid kiss of death itself.

(((Bubble – pop – bubble – pop – bubble )))

Some hurled accusations, condemnations, demonizations, some guilting, shaming, threatening, begging, raging, weeping and screaming for a torturer's non-existent mercy where others could not, too busy gurgling, gagging and bleeding their lives out. The rest, though, were pleading for those they'd loved, bemoaning those loved then lost, or sobbing for themselves so selfishly in the throes of death, eyes so full of hate, and despair, so woe were they . . .

"Oh-woe-woe-woe-WHAAAAAA! – BWAA-HAHAHAHAHAHAAA!"

. . . Laughter . . .

((((Echoes))))

. . . Laughter . . .

It didn't care - It smiled - It listened – It laughed - It lapped it all right up - It dined on every outcry - Each a memory of times past - Happy memories effloresced in It's psyche - Immortalized, cherished and sweet - And on them it gorged - With the uttermost greed.

Yet they chorused on, and on, and on as the dozens of whimpering mouths became hundreds, the hundreds thousands and the thousands millions, their puling rising to shrieks of blistering pain in the billions and ever more! Building ever higher! Blooming ever diviner!

(((((Echoes)))))

(((Crescendos)))

Their suffering sang like crystal glass, a hellish harmony ringing to an exquisite, excruciating crescendo, until, swelling like a bloated, exploding womb, the sheer volume of too many slimy, screaming maws crying out for justice ((BURST!)) the filthy, juddering testicle of pusillanimous, psychological scum they all formed in a mass, ejaculatory spray of innards unlike any of Frieza's slaughtered victims butchered and gone before as all the blood he'd ever spilled or stilled irrupted forth in a tsunami of gorgeous, orgastic gore, saturating, pleasuring and reinvigorating It's nixed, ravaged spirit in It's own robustious awe.

. . . Such Awe . . .

(((((((((Echoes)))))))))

When an entire world teaming with life is spiflicated in a single blazing, fiery instant, every screaming, fretting voice upon it silenced all at once, the unfinished books of their meaningless life stories slammed SHUT forever, incinerated, and turned to ashes. It knew this truth, had seen it, had done it, and such had come to pass once more, but this time in Its own tortured mind with every last shrieking, blood-gushing victim therein, eternally stilled. One world's funeral pyre, its mourners burning with it, is a beautiful thing, but not nearly comparison enough to do such a reaping justice.

. . . Justice . . .

(((((Echoes)))))

. . . Grievance . . .

The gravitas of a thousand worlds vanquished in a single explosion, lives superseding the digits of octillions infesting them all, snuffed out in one glorious, euphoric instant. The plethoric aeons nature itself took to birth those worlds, to evolve those races, ended in one stupendous bloodletting.

(((((ORGASMIC)))))

OOOOOXXXOOOOO

((((((ECHOESs))))))

Yes! This ecstasy; this was that justice, and though it had never known the jubilation of killing so many in but a heartbeat, It imagined the joy of that deed to rival the quelling of those wailing phantoms, exalted as it drowned under the crimson tides of their demise in utter ecstasy, basking in the rich, bloody rush, rejoicing in the flowing anguish of the long vanquished, languishing in it's divine music and humming along with a flayed smile and a sense of absolute, ineffable fulfilment that lesser beings could only dream of.

. . . Dream . . . Dream . . .

(((((DREAM)))))

Oh yes; yes-yes-YES! Such catharsis, all of it, reaped and sown with a single, insignificant (-pop-)

(-pop-)

Something just popped. What just popped? . . .

(-pop-) . . . /-:?v?:-\ . . . Define (-pop-)

(-pop-) = an expulsion of air subtracting its own containment via over-multiplication of its capacity, the numerator becoming its own cancelled out denominator before it's captive, unified collective redivide into the uncountable, individual air molecules, set free . . . No, that equation is wrong, or the adjective is, or both.

(-pop-) A sound signifying the expulsion of air?

Air? . . .

Sound? . . .

Here? . . .

Where? . . .

What sound? . . .

What air? . . .

Nay if anything the antipathy was true. An indeterminate force tugged at It, squeezing and twisting as if It were unwanted parchment, marred with a careless writer or artist's mistakes, to be crumpled up and discarded as trash, webs of creases wrinkling and warping everything written upon it in the rumpling; trash, evidently fated for burning. A feeling, like melting, like, a tepid puddle of blood as it's drunken thirstily into the bed of soil in a dead garden of tombstone flowers, slave sentries standing withered and timeless, roots inhumed deep in their graves. To them, It was another flower yet unsullied, a light in need of snuffing for more the heresy It would surely be left undead and unburied over the coming restless eternities, such that It must be snuffed and tombed soulless in immortal dirt beneath deathless ground.

Ground? . . .

What ground? . . .

Maybe one, maybe none; nevertheless, ground or no, the sinking is real, is all there was, slowly fading, slipping away and lapsing deep; so very deep . . .

. . . Deep . . .

Sinking? As into a sinkhole? A wormhole? A Black Hole? That cold black sea of drowned dreams? Whichever, the tug was real, drawing It in, first gently, then more insistently with a grip so implacable It could not resist the compulsion even had it the strength and will to try. What resistance it did dredge up was but a scattering of feeble, stray thoughts of denial, a scattering of bleak, lustreless feathers on an arctic zephyr, faint, perturbed, without voice or substance; ghosts all.

Reality, It's sanity, both were as dimensions folding on dimensions and back on themselves, or, it's selves over and over more times than anything ought fold, even overlapping and unfolding by the same orphic lore's law. A mercy then that no pain waxed with the indefinable sensation, odd as It was. It bore It's many other agonies, and yet how an experience this surreal was not indescribably hellacious defied It's highest ken.

. . . A mercy indeed . . .

. . . Mercy . . .

It wanted no mercy! It wanted It's agony! Craved it! All of it; even multiplied and magnified and amplified and still it would choose pain over mercy! For as it had so recently long-long ago learned, there are only two things more harrowingly horrific than the gift of mercy: Receiving it from an archenemy, and receiving it from a dung-sucking monkey – and thrice damned curses It had received that gift from an archenemy AND, a monkey!

((((Monkey's Mercy))))

Ironic that the true mercy was the total lack of monkeys in whatever backward purgatory now lethargically ingested it into an oblivion wherein it's hatred of mercy seeded a paradox unto itself. To hate monkeys past the point of genocidal obsession yet likewise hate the present mercy of their absence while hating the mercy one monkey had shown and hating Itself for begging it of that monkey, It's wretched instinct to survive hijacking all else, and THAT, ploy or not, was an act of disgrace beyond disgrace.

. . . Wretched . . . Dishonour . . . Defeat . . . Shame . . .

((((SHAME! - SHAME! - SHAME!))))

Life, that fickle bitch; no matter It's desire, no matter the angles it worked toward attaining true satisfaction, true happiness, life never gave an inch, and rarely, when it took an inch by force, life would take two or three right back! That fickle, fickle bitch!

. . . Life . . .

(((Shame)))

Now they had taken all It's hard won inches, Life and that blasted Super Saiyan united. They'd conspired to take It's inches, it's centimetres, and even it's millimetres; and they had. They had taken, everything, and left It, nothing . . .

. . . Everything . . .

((((Echoes))))

. . . Nothing . . .

In this, only one anchor kept the nothing of everything and everything of nothing from dragging it beneath those deep, dark waters . . .

(((((Hate)))))

(((Echoes)))

(((((Hate)))))

Hate kept the rising despair at bay. Amorous, unreasoning, undying, unrelenting, HATE! And it swore, SWORE, that before it died alone, It would, WOULD, have, vengeance! Oh assuredly it would. No matter the price. No matter the sacrifice . . . IT WOULD HAVE VENGEANCE!

" _I WILL HAVE VENGENCE!"_

(((Echoes)))

((((((Echoes))))))

((((((((((ECHOES))))))))))

 **(((** " **As you wish . . . It shall be.")))**

. . . Echoes . . .

. . . Within Moments . . .

. . . Within Echoes . . .

. . . And . . .

And as if in response to It's tormented oath, the hungry, hairline sinkhole split wide open like a yawning set of rusty jaws, the bottomless cavity within chiasmic and darker than the fifth and largest sun of It's home world, darkness that swallowed It whole in the echo of an instant. There was no pull anymore, just a directionless falling to a where utterly aleatory, if not outright transcendent, to a placeless place wherein it's surreal, opaque gulf it discovered one more familiar feeling, It's most loathed feeling.

. . . Fear . . .

Not digestion, apparently. It was not eaten, perse, a fate already preferred and growing more desirable with each passing instant as It floated there. Above? - Below? - Side-face? Floated before the . . . The Presence? Spirit? Malign Entity? Did it matter? No. What mattered was the unnatural blackness of it. Formless, faceless, omnipresent, radiating hurricanes, infernos, blizzards and tsunamis of raw, unadulterated, unexampled malevolence so potent and suffocating as to raise even it's proverbial hackles high enough to impale a monkey on.

It's enormity alone . . .

As acquainted with dark doings as It was, It's basest instincts, instincts thought long conquered by It's race, shrieked unintelligibly, scuppered and flinging prophesies of dire dooms like so much mental excrement. It felt no less insignificant and inadequate floating here, over this, this whoever, wherever, whatever it was, vulnerable as a newborn babe would have been resting in the hands of It's former self. No, more vulnerable, so very, VERY much more.

Moments and instants melded together into a depiction of time not at all It's own. It heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing. Yet senses it never knew it had were all at once swamped by an overawing alien presence so toxic and stifling as to asphyxiate even one such as Itself that needs never breathe, injecting into It's black soulless soul of heartless hearts a chill Death itself would commit ritual suicide just to escape as It floated frozen in the clutches of unfathomable dread before the formless fiend, that indisputable, omnipotent, omniscient god over this befouled domain and it's cloying, omnipresent aura of pervasive darkness and shuddering horrors.

A bolt of icy, electric fear . . . this was no mere presence or wicked entity stalking between the dimensional layers of reality. This . . . this was a deity it had never heard nor read of, let alone affiliated with, yet instinctually knew as such, as one of the Ancient Banes of existence, older than the universes in who's dingy undercurrents it lurked, older than age itself and a force even Beerus the Destroyer would fall to if It ever broke free . . .

Broke Free?. . .

The Ancient Bane was far from free. Trapped, imprisoned, at least partially, but certainly not free. It could tell, though how It knew this, It knew not; It just simply, knew. It knew many other things too, many things it had not known before, things so vast, rich and nebulous, so mind-blowingly transcendent, expansive and shocking as to never fit in the puny thing the Frieza creature had once so haughty declared a " _superior intellect_ " An impossible fit, or seemingly, before epiphany, impossible. It's mind was now not It's mind at all. Expansions, renovations, innovations which evolution could never rival even with the luxury of multiple eternities, let alone a meagre instant.

What was this? Is This? What was, is, happening to It?

. . . It? . . .

((Echoes))

It is It, still an It, still It, only also, somehow more, simultaneously Itself, and another. Another It? Now two Its, channels opening, floodgates and dams bursting asunder. An irresistible deluge, a spike of consciousness infinitely greater than it's pitiful preconceptions of cognizance and perception effortlessly forcing Itself entry and access via a merging of awarenesses through the unconsented connection betwixt Itself, and Itself, betwixt It the dust mote, and It the existence surpassing the size, scope and complexity of an Omniverse in a fusion of perspectives, of minds, and, and . . .

And watched; it was being watched, no, observed. It, the dust mote, fixed, no, pinned in It's, this chained Excess Omniverse's absolute centre of focus, as if . . . as if the dust mote were the centre of the Omniverse's omniverse, an Omniverse dead, just a hollowed out, echoing shell devoid of all life outside of, and within itself, devoid until cometh the dust mote, the glimmer of light drifting into It's vastest, abstrusest darkness.

(((Echoes)))

Wrong. The echoes sounded, wrong, different, surpassing surreal into the incomprehensible. It wasn't the echoes alone either. Something was reaching out to it, or It to something; then connection, starbursts grand as galaxies, a place above reality. Time turned inside out, grew hazy, became a depiction of time all It's own, one warped into a state of no time at all.

((((Echoes))))

What might have been a voice, indefinable, far away, behind interminable, intangible walls might have spoken to It; that voice It knew better than any, that voice, a distant, stabbing intimacy, as if aging aeons in the acquaintanceship, that voice . . . It's own voice? It's own twice over, speaking to itself, yet not, as if, separate, two as one, the diminutive dust mote, with It's forgotten identity, lacked by the other, the far, FAR vaster.

Could It be the voice of It's madness' advent at last? Or something, other? Millions of splayed fingers, each an echo, curling, coiling so swift, closing in so slow, sloth with gusto, a hand transformed, become a fist that neither pulverized, crushed nor squeezed, as if a gesture, a greeting, a handshake as between prospective business partners – between . . . between the Dust Mote and The Excess Omniverse.

. . . Greetings . . .

. . . Salutations . . .

. . . Discussions . . .

. . . Exchanges . . .

. . . Pledges . . .

. . . Contracts . . .

(((((Echoes)))))

. . . Agreements . . .

. . . A deal, struck . . .

Much was said. Much was decided. Much was done and agreed upon; and all the while much time and all details detrimental in the proceedings were lost to a failing memory. The missing pieces, akin to deals brokered behind a closed door with the most disadvantaged of the dealers being forced to separate from their every sense of comprehension and leave them idling outside that thick, soundproofed door, effectively forbidden audience to their own dilations determining subjects of greatest, pivotal import.

Nevertheless, It persevered in It's deaf, dumb exchange of purposive words, subconsciously forgetting each word unto the next even as they were spoken. So much meaning portending imperative futures vital to It's goals, and none of it penetrated the noetic plane of legible intelligibility. No bliss was this ignorance, and no bliss would be the knowledge It could not grapple with for all It's fight and will to try; that Omniverse was just too vast and august for the dust mote to grasp.

Perhaps this sensory discourse simply manifested as an act of self-preservation, the dust mote severing the one thread of connection to It's partner in fusion, lest perception of It's merest thoughts, let alone it's awareness as a whole, overfill it's comparatively infinitesimal mind past the point of no returns in spite of all temporarily broken limitations. Or maybe the reason was something entirely other. The why was irrelevant, such was the status-quo here, this circumstance where the very concept of status-quo bore no precedence, or even existence.

((((Existence))))

One reward breaking in the form of a fleeting, introspective insight did the Omniversal It decree the dust mote reap, spinning a single silken thread through It's tiny memory over which it held absolute, inexorable dominion, an umbrageous subjugation the dust mote was utterly, ironically mindless of, and a mere shard of clarity comprised the insight it so sapiently proffered.

A small and specifically selected scrap of the two-sided verbal exchange between one voice seeped through the crack under that forbidding door, one side the voice's original owner, the other a marionette dialoguing through a best case means too limited for It's formless master's ease of intercourse. A feeble language requiring fleshy mutations to give sound but not telepathically convey, plucked direct from the dust mote's tiny mind by that marionette's nebulous master and wholly mastered to a standard the unwitting teacher could never quantify, let alone rival.

Yes, but one chidingly teasing glimpse of that final exchange; the very forging of their infernal contract.

(((( IM-MOR-TAL-I-TY ))))

" _Yes! By Blood! By soul! By bond of my word I accept you're terms and seal this bargain! On my honour, I swear, come the day of my death, to surrender to you what I promised to! But only after you, on your honour, fulfil the promise you have made to me when, come the day I attain the vengeance I so sorely seek, that to my exacting standard, you make my greatest wish come true . . . Are we agreed?_ " – Demanded It, the brash, arrogant dust mote.

(((Echoes)))

" _ **. . . . . . .We are, agreeeeeed . . . A bargain is struck. Our oath, sworn . . .**_ _"_ – Affirmed The Omniversal It.

((((Echoes))))

" _Our oaths are sworn. And I warn you but this once. Fear my wrath and do not DARE cross me! Just be ready, you wretched deity, to make my wish a reality_!" – Commanded It, the ignorant, domineering dust mote.

(((((ECHOES)))))

The Omniversal It rumbled with what, to any sentient, would be the superimposed equivalent of ultimate smug anticipation and titillated amusement. It's reply however reflected none of it, merely a singular confirmation.

" **As you wish . . . it shall be."**

((((((ECHOES!))))))

A single additional echo of another confiscated memory did the marionette's master designedly let slip through, that of a final thought wassailed in by the voice's one true owner before sinking it deep along with the rest.

((((( IM-MOR-TAL-I-TY )))))

((((((((Echoes))))))))

" _YES-YES-YES_! _What a fool! That anserine, guileless deity! So easily tricked! So easily deceived! In exchange for nothing, It will give me everything! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA_! . . . My brilliance is limitless! NYAAAAAAA-HAHAHAHAHA!"

It mentally racketed, It's pride in It's prevarication and business skills total. It had given up nothing and gained everything. At last, at long, LONG last It was taking back the inches life had stolen from It, and yet many inches more to come as well; this was only the beginning . . .

(((((Beginning)))))

The dust mote however couldn't have known that the Omniverse was wholly privy to It's private revelries. Unobserved over It's own crowing, self-congratulatory mirth, It's laughter did not ring out alone, for malicious as it's cackling was, it could never compare to the sheer inflective madness, malevolence and volume the accompanying echo underlying it held, an echo imperceptible while the two shared just one voice. Thus the only exuberant, spadiceous jubilations it discerned were all Its own.

And so the dust mote laughed, and the Omniverse laughed, and together as one they laughed . . .

. . . And Laughed . . . And Laughed . . . And Laughed . . .

. . . It, Laughed . . .

. . . Forever . . .

(((((((Laughter)))))))

(((((((ECHOES!)))))))

(((( Im-mor-tal-i-ty ))))

(((Echoes)))

The matriarch of all splitting headaches, a conflagration of pain echoing in It's skull, reverberating round and back upon itself, blazing until suddenly it all churned and distorted once more, a sensation the extreme polar opposite to the one that had sucked It into this malefic realm of unreality. It was already totally lost as to what was what and where and how, but now, if –now- was even a relevant status quo, let alone location, It was so lost that the word –lost- itself was at a loss in clarifying how lost It was.

Much and more was lost in the fog that abruptly cocooned and choked It, It, who had no true need to breathe. The fog was another hated mercy next to the pain, the horrible, harrowing, soul-gutting pain. It felt as if something was simultaneously carving away specific fragments of It's mind and consciousness the way a butcher carves the fat from the lean while unceremoniously uprooting and expelling It's very presence from It's dominion like food found wanting by a culinary connoisseur's finicky pallet and regurgitated, then flushed down a privy.

. . . Cycles . . . Currents . . . Cascades . . . Circles . . .

. . . Submersion . . .

. . . Submission . . .

(((Catharsis)))

In the stillness, an awareness of absence arose, washing through It's fractured psyche, an cognizance that itself grew fainter, fading away as a flowing stream nibbles tiny specs and clods of dirt from the banks it chuckles merrily past over the centuries that pass, it's water, so much like time, carrying them off to destinations unknown until all the water has gone the way of any life long fled a body bled bone dry, leaving only bleached, desiccated fossils on a baron, suns-scorched riverbed, behind . . .

. . . Time . . .

That was the feeling, consciousness shed through a bloodletting, a sense of waning time, a fading awareness of fading memories of the glimpse allowed it into their sworn oath, sealed in a sacred contract more personal and binding than if it were written in It's very life's blood sealed by a black magic oath; Their, contract.

. . . Signed . . .

(((Sworn)))

. . . Sealed . . .

Contract? Their? - What contract? What they? There had been a contract, an oath, It felt sure. It had sworn an oath. But was it sure it was sure? The echo of that recollection lingered, also evaporating like mist; yet the recollection itself, gone, removed in the way a deadly brain tumour is surgically excised.

Excised? Indeed, yes, but also, no. Excised, except not removed; rather, buried with all other recollection of some encounter, some meeting, now one with confusion's aether, far out of reach, a memory a capsized ship of riches sunk beneath the waves of that foul black sea it so dreaded to delve under and seek, lest in those vile depths it's mind's eye again see the intolerable truths It itself cast down there to rest restless and rot, forever unconfronted.

Thus was the why in the where of this chosen hiding place. Where better to hide vital information to one's ultimate fate than the very place that one fears most to face? And what irony, It mused, that down there It was not the first to hide such vital clues. How little the dust mote knew that among three other great unlearned truths, three now made four, it's very raison d'être had been secreted by another there too, safely concealed at the very heart of It's felicitous ignorance.

. . . Ignorance . . .

It could not know that newest addition's price or the cost that memory's secret sworn oath could exact upon It's destiny if not shed. That memory sunk and locked away until an ultra-specific chain of circumstance triggers the key, injecting buoyancy, surfacing it back into cogency; then, and only then, would the Omniverse and the dust mote meet again. A fabled airtight, inescapable prophecy formed not of words but of unknowable meaning infused It's befouled soul, left behind, akin to the stamp of a cattle brand, and forgotten.

Thus it was done, and the mind-crippling reverberations finally stilled, and, without ceremony or notice, shrank It's formerly ascended psyche back to It's natural, tiny claustrophobic confines which now seemed so very warm, cosy and safe wrapped up snug in a mysteriously consoling ignorance just now discovered; lifeless, illogical, inexplicable and, comforting . . .

(((Ignorance)))

Drifting – Drifting : back through the breech aft a parting of ways, the dust mote and the Omniverse separate once more, one reluctantly evicting the other, one taking it's meagre light away, leaving the other lost and alone in It's darkest of darkness, lifeless, devoid again and more so now than before, losing a little more, losing that meagre light, but only until it's light returned, and with more like it, enough that it may, after all these aeons of endless eternities, again feast.

(Echoes)

What consumed the Omniverse a mortal might call anticipation, and the anticipation reintroduced to It a concept lost forever' ago, the concept of time, and the impatience natural to any who must wait for that which they desire most, whether it be a terrible, bloody vengeance, or something unfathomably worse.

. . . Echoes . . .

(((The echoes are gone)))

Departing, the dust mote was a dust mote no more, for It could not mourn what it could not remember, but if it could, it would mourn not at all, for valuable as such grand secrets are, in the end they were worthless next to the far more satisfying knowledge of Son Goku's rewritten fate, Goku and all who held his - friendship.

. . . Friendship . . .

Friendship; among the most disgusting, taboo words in It's vocabulary, and any filth who'd dared utter it with sincerity in earshot had been scorned, scorched then scourged into oblivion. Indeed, the only ones who shall mourn are It's enemies, their friendships guaranteed it, just as the now seemingly mundane physical agony and It's exponentially redefined perspective on what it once believed reality to be, guaranteed It's revenge.

. . . Revenge . . .

It was awake in Its fleshy remains and with the returning pain came a curious wave of relief to be drifting again amid Namek's splintered cadaver with real memories, real histories, and, real enemies . . .

. . . Revenge . . .

Leaser races who need sleep to survive call them dreams, and on waking it is said they are forgotten, if indeed a dream is what that journey was to one of an unsleeping race. A spirit journey, an out of body experience or mere hallucination, whatever It had just returned from, what memory failed to recall, was irrelevant. It could not hear the echoes anymore, and that, was good enough.

. . . Ignorance . . .

. . . Echoes . . .

. . . Ignorance . . .

In fact better than good enough, and as elusive as the why was, It somehow knew everything would be alright from here onward. There was not a doubt in It's mind it would fulfil It's heart's desire. Why no doubt? It could not say. It just simply, knew . . .

. . . Vengeance . . .

No matter the price, vengeance greater than any ever reaped in the history of all histories past, present, future and parallel would befall those who'd dared teach it the meaning of humiliation. Sufferings no hell nor god nor monster could conceive of awaited Son Goku and his worthless, miserable ilk, waiting to assimilate them all.

. . . It would have It's vengeance . . .

Six words spoken in it's own voice, words spoken in a sequence it never before spoke came to it's torn, bloody lips shaping them in a soundless murmur, their meaning heard only in It's head, their message reaffirming that mysterious sense of calm reassurance with which It had woken, words it repeated like a mantra to itself thrice more, each time with more conviction, smiling it's gruesome half-a-faced smile.

" _As you wish . . . It shall be . . . as you wish – it shall be . . . As -you- wish, it- shall- be."_

Something in the words however just didn't flow quite right. They lacked a certain, voice; a certain, resonance. So a solitary moment it paused, drifting there in thought until revelation dawned.

. . . The echoes are gone . . .

The solution to all of Its woes decocting to nothing more than a slight shift in the string, a knot in the thread undone, pulled loose and tied again in a placeless place It alone ordained, and so synched, it tried one final time.

. . . The echoes are gone . . .

 _(((((((((("WRONG! . . . As,_ _ **I,**_ _wish! : It,_ _ **WILL**_ _, be!"))))))))))_

. . . So it begins; and so it ends . . .

Potent, titanic, deafening, more than just the words but the statement entire loosed an awesomely powerful echo that thundered outward, shaking the very universe itself and yet vaster places far beyond as it rolled like a tidal wave across all existence with it's message discernible by only the very few truly able to hear it.

. . . The echoes were gone . . .

Alter two measly words and suddenly what the original mantra lacked, this personalized version more than made up for. It felt so right, felt so true as to draw a single tear from It, shed in celebration, and if blood was never squeezed from a stone, the old adage that there is a first for everything does indeed preside even here.

But did it really comprehend the impact of what It had done? The magnitude of what It had birthed? What it had set in motion? Did It not realize what unimaginable power It had spawned in the immeasurably limitless abys of Its wretched selfishness and despair? Did It fully appreciate the terrible doom it had unleased upon all existence? Did it even know? Did it have the faintest clue? . . . No; But if It did . . . WOULD IT EVEN CARE?!

. . . The echoes were gone . . .

PAH! No! Of course it wouldn't! To see Son Goku broken and weeping, It would sacrifice Itself, everything else and existence itself just to settle a piffling grudge, laughing merrily along as if it's one great lark to kick back and relax with a smirk and a goblet of wine, watching on as the Last Dark swallows it and us all; because . . .

. . . The echoes were gone . . .

Because, it, was, SELFISH! Because it, was, WEAK! Because it was PATHETIC! . . . But most of all, because it was, afraid; and, because there was nothing – nothing any of us could do, to stop It . . . least of all, me.

. . . The echoes were gone . . .

Perhaps if It had not closed itself to the echoes so soon after learning to hear them, It might have felt it's inexcusable transgression, understood it's egregious ramification and stopped It before It began. But no; with or without total precognition, the simple truth is It would never have stopped, or cared for the incomparable harm It had reaped then sown, for it is to the absolute famine of It's remorse that I, better than anyone, can attest.

Alas to the Great Echo, It was deaf, and despite being it's point of origin, perhaps that was for the best. It heard nothing and knew nothing beyond thinking a single statement that purged the disquiet plaguing it's wretched, befouled spirit, renewing Its lease on life, and that is the problem; that It felt the release in It's declaration far - FAR too strongly. It had made an oath, that oath had been sworn, and it's echo ensured that to it, witnesses were born.

. . . Broken . . .

Life and future fixed in It's sights and all now as it should be, the drifter at last let go, stopped fighting the tide and embraced it's path as a feather floating on a stream, the current carrying It away to Its heart's desire, unsure why, unsure how, yet sure all the same it's destiny would not let it down. A tranquillity It's soul had never known, reposeful, assuasive, floating weightless, a feather on the wings of the wind, drifting peaceful and alone.

. . . All Alone . . .

(((((" _As you always, have been – cgffh - cgffh - and always, will be.")))))_

Someone had told It that, once. One of Its seven long expired half-sibling brothers had croaked those very words through tears and sniffles, between fits of pain-swollen shrieks and wheezing out blood " _How wrong that fool was._ " It thought and chucked at the treasured memory, smiling all the more serenely; after all . . .

. . . The echoes were gone . . .

Those seven half-brothers and their feeble, do-gooding mother who'd wept and begged so beautifully for their torture to end, imploring It to take her life instead and spare her natural born vermin. Implored, in vein, for it did take her life, but only last, long - LONG after It made her watch their months of agony and torment, each teasingly, titillatingly dismembered piece, by, piece and purged unto death until only she was left to mourn and scream her suffering and laments a few months more until It tired of her blubbering and sent her scurrying after her wretched, worthless spawn into death with a single, impotent curse upon her torn, bloody simpering lips.

She'd sworn her hex on It's name, but whatever prophesied doom her delusional curse promised went unheard, her empty words and futile oaths to dead gods were irrelevant, for as soon too would be the monkey's fate, she and all but three of her superfluous brood were gone, and in her extermination's wake was not a single lingering echo of their lives left.

. . . The Echoes were gone . . .

She, was gone. Her vile whelp', were gone. Her entire species, save four, were gone. They were, ALL, gone.

. . . Gone . . .

. . . The echoes were gone . . .

Gone as if never here at all, and in their absence, resonating at the hollowed out, immolated core of It's rotten black soul, was left stillness, silence, and order, for it was there that, wonder of wonders, it discovered a talent the Frieza it once had been and would never be again, had proven himself too inept to learn

. . . Patience . . .

A good feeling, patience, a new feeling, and a fine weapon; with patience, it's revenge will come. With time, It's revenge will come. By design, it's revenge will come. By destiny, by fate, by It's sheer will alone, It's revenge, will come. It is ineffable, it is inevitable; It's revenge will come, and . . .

. . . The echoes were gone . . .

And It's attainment would be but only one of three wishes fulfilled. To avenge Itself on those who had humbled It, to wield power absolute unrivalled in all existence, and, to rule over all that is and ever was so completely that existence itself trembles in terror and bows before it. Those three things were what It craved more than anything, and while a single one is left unrealized to fill the soulless void within It's hungry heart that It may at last find peace in an end and drift forever away, wanly, truly, happy; and utterly, unforgotten, It would NEVER give up, never surrender, never, die . . .

. . . Lord Frieza, was not forgotten . . .

Drifting – Drifting, It smiled. It could be patient; It would compel patience just as had once compelled most of the universe to bow before It. Patience will not dare defy. Life itself will soon learn who It's master truly is. Life, the Super Saiyan and the entire universe with them, would learn, and their screams WOULD BE, that lesson! It once held the universe by its throat; It would do so again, and next time, It would squeeze harder, and harder, until . . .

. . . The echoes were gone . . .

Drifting – Drifting, as if in the pristine, crystalline waters of a place called home, the legendary, vitalizing ki-rich waters It once swum. Water; plans are water, means grant them motion, power lends force, mind gifts fluidity, purpose provides direction and willpower ensure the current never dies. But this is this, that is that, and before the end lie a long journey, and before the journey, this short yet eternal wait, drifting here, where once . . .

. . . The echoes were gone . . .

. . . Lord Frieza was far from dead . . .

Drifting - Drifting, hard exterior breached, fleshy shell maimed, skeletally shorn, shattered, fractured, splintered, ousted guts, innards and entrails, It's skull blasted agape, splintered the morbid mind within laid open, all exposed naked to this feeble, murderous chill, wrung in It's clutches yet drifting at peace, when . . .

. . . The echoes were gone . . .

. . . Lord Frieza was not lost . . .

Drifting – Drifting: Lassitude and patience, motive and intent, time and direction as water and current, merely the stream that need be swum to reach it, or lacking the necessary limbs with which to swim, merely drifted, drifting assured It would soon be whole once more, drifting on the tides back to power, to life, to revenge, to conquest, to immortality, and to dreams that shan't after all drown beneath that cold black sea of liquid futility where the echoes died, and where from It's wet, slimy abys of reeking, melancholic perfidy . . .

. . . Lord Frieza would have returned . . .

. . . Too late . . .

. . . The Echo stirs . . .

. . . The decision is made . . .

. . . The division is done . . .

. . . It is time for It to go . . .

. . . It is time, for It to die . . .

Drifting – Drifting, afloat a pain sodden cloud of euphoric rapture in reverse; from elation to gratified resignation. It's madness needed encroach no further, already one with It here in this void amid asteroids of planetary devastation, here in empty space where the cold is reviled as unrivalled. Not so, the drifter mused, recalling a place called home, far, far from where . . .

. . . Frieza is waking . . .

. . . The Echo is woken . . .

. . . It is time for It to die . . .

Drifting – Drifting. Contently indifferent, the drifter waited patiently. It wasn't cold anymore, nor did it bother to wonder why, the mystery's appeal just wasn't equal to the exertion. Easier to just drift, and whether in body or mind or spirit, it knew not, cared not and bore no regrets, having already surrendered to the current that briskly spirited It and all the segmented, nebulous fragments of Itself to destinations unknown, if any at all; while . . .

. . . Frieza is waiting . . .

. . . The Echo is growing . . .

. . . It is time for It to die . . .

Drifting – Drifting, time slithers by, slow, fast, minutes, weeks, hours, days, maybe months. Present, past and future balled up in a tangled snarl transcending and contradicting itself, spinning, shifting and whirling fancifully in a wash of unclassifiable colours, as if gazing into the infinity of a great astral kaleidoscope before falling into it, helplessly hypnotized and sucked in to become one with it's endless, ephemerally eternal rhythms and collisions. Out here, time was meaningless, and even as the colours, definition, shapes and torpid, turbid motion of ageless life all around it faded lethargically away, it simply drifted; happy . . .

. . . The Echo is swelling . . .

. . . Frieza will rise again . . .

. . . It is time for -It- to die . . .

Drifting – drifting, so peaceful. Peaceful adrift It's evanescing cognizance of all things and itself. Peaceful for too little too long until ebbing awareness robbed it of that eirenic silver lining too, and in lieu of It's silence crept in a warm droning sound It's expiring senses scarcely registered, quite distant and directionless, like a humming space-beetle's fluttering wings, or the engine of a small ship, or the swell of the fabled Cerulean Sea of Ice'aw. Either or, or all or something other or more, the sound imperilled the peace that had so sublimely settled over It all, even the jeering echoes assimilated into It's deathly, blissful, savoury quietude, from where . . .

. . . The Echo, is coming . . .

. . . Frieza is ravenous, for his revenge . . .

. . . It is time, for –It-, to die . . .

Drifting – Drifting, so tired, so weary, so sick of it all; that humming noise that was not an echo being the one and all now perceptually linking the feeble vestiges of the departing drifter's nigh ghostly ken to purpose and hope. That sound, a last chance lifeline flung down the last lingering, swiftly crumbling path back to existence and reality, a last redeeming chance contemptuously refused. That sound, now closer, and closer still. That unwelcome sound It wished would just go away and leave it be, drifting alone, drifting away to its final rest, and . . .

. . . The Echo is singing . . .

. . . The Echo is rising . . .

. . . Frieza is alive, again . . .

. . . Frieza will never stop, until The Echo ends . . .

. . . It is time, now, for The Echo to rise . . .

. . . It is time, now, for It, to die . . .

Drifting – Drifting away. That sound that at last mercifully vanished, it's offered path back to salvation a rotted, dead end ruin leading back only to the same eternal nothingness as the way forth. The final fleeting moments of a present left It, a present one with Itself, and with It all that was left, a present cognitively self-erasing Itself by will of the very force that sustained it, by will of It's all-consuming solipsism to which It was god and sovereign, It's every whim divine law, that eternity within an instant and this terminal, suicidal whim It's long awaited curtain call; for now . . .

. . . The Echo, is here . . .

. . . The Echo, is born . . .

. . . Frieza, is rising, again . . .

. . . Frieza will seize, his heart's desire . . .

. . . And the time, is now, for -It-, to die! . . .

Drifting – Drifting: awareness slipping – slipping. Wider The Great Neverafter yawns, closer, and closer, closing jaws embracing It's last dying spark of dead end present, the encroaching, pervasive nothingness beyond them waging an unlosable, infallible war with the final lucid memory defining this frozen, deathly moment and It's delusional, illusory substitutes for five absent, hostile suns bathing It in their combined, hateful light, baring exuberant witness to this most deserved yet un-loneliest ending, for even now . . .

. . . All live alone - All die alone . . .

. . . It has always been, alone . . .

. . . It dies, as It once lived . . .

. . . And believes . . .

. . . It is already dead . . .

. . . When with a single echo . . .

. . . It lives, as once It died . . .

. . . And believes . . .

. . . It has always been, dead . . .

. . . Alone, It knew life, but cannot, know death . . .

. . . Wherein the half-truth of It's false beliefs lie . . .

. . . And that is not dead which alone does not die . . .

Drifting – Drifting, alive in that horrid, hateful sunlight. Those suns; Azure Sun, Emerald Sun, Magenta Sun, Crimson Sun, and, Black Sun. The resplendent, radiant suns of a place It once called home, so near yet withdrawing, recoiling from It in utter abhorrence; gloriously, mercifully merciless . . .

. . . Those suns . . .

. . . Happily watching, as it dies . . .

. . . Those suns . . .

. . . Laughing, barracking, cheering with the universe . . .

. . . Those suns . . .

. . . Celebrating as the Neverafter, spirits It away . . .

. . . Those Suns . . .

Drifting – Drifting away, spurning It's presence, disparaging It's existence, abandoning It along with their ancient, captive, secret enemy. It's secret sire, that secret heart of home. A sire not disappointed. A sire proud of It's vanishing spawn who Itself sired a newborn echo set free. Proud to see fulfilled It's despised child's only reason to be. Appeased to be free of that vile, uncherished child, and oh so very pleased to at last, at long, LONG last see, that loathed, now useless child drifting – drifting away into bitter, bleak, black, nihility . . .

. . . Drifting – Drifting . . .

. . . It drifted away – into the void . . .

. . . It drifted away - into It's dreams . . .

. . . Into sopor . . .

. . . Into sleep . . .

. . . Broken perfection indeed . . .

. . . It who needs never sleep . .

. . . It, who incapacity never reaps . . .

. . . Drifted - Drifted into sleep . . .

. . . Drifting into the blackness folding in . . .

. . . Drifting – drifting . . . drifting . . .

. . . gone . . .

" **Before I Die Alone – I Will Have Vengeance"**

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 **Fragments**

"Same old story, eh? Everybody wants for everything, nobody wants for anything and everything pines for nothing as nothing craves everything . . . Ah-yes, the system works.

 **Resonance**

"Redemption is subjective, Girl, and a greater good not always its upshot's destination."

 **Dissonance**

"Oh Frieza . . . What, have, you, done? . . . You complete, and utter, fool."

 **Echo**

"As I wish . . . It will be."

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 **Concludes:**

 **Age 763 - EST - October 14**

"The Day Frieza returned to life."

 **:::To Be Continued:::**

 **::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**

 **(((((\=x(((((-=)=((((F))))=(=-)))))x=/)))))**

* * *

 **Music tracks commonly listened to in the writing of this chapter.**

"Witchcraft" from the game "Silent Hill Homecoming"

"Vengeance" By "Zack Hemsey" Is also plays in a move called "The Equalizer"

"The Way" By "Zack Hemsey"

"A New Dawn" By "Appocalyptica"

* * *

(((Gooday Cunts)))


End file.
